Chapter 1
AMBUSHED
S
ome two hundred miles to the west of Dragonfrost, D’loom, the chief seaport of Skelt, had experienced a kind of rebirth. In both tavern and royal court it was hotly debated whether this was a cause for celebration or curses. In the days since the Preceptor’s armies had been broken and scattered, the lands had fallen into anarchy. The ancient roads, once protected by royal decree backed up by garrisons of soldiers, were now largely abandoned to brigands, hunting unwary victims.
Navigating the sea lanes had become as precarious, yet D’loom had prospered. When pirates returned to wreak havoc on the trading ships, they had chosen the port of D’loom as their headquarters, giving the city and its ships a type of immunity. Naturally this immunity came at a price, or more accurately, a percentage.
The son of the former king knew a good thing when it clutched him by the throat and held a dagger to his heart. He offered the pirates haven, and a tenth of all taxes. Because even ordinary pickpockets and second-storey thieves thought twice before risking the wrath of the pirates, a kind of law and order had descended on D’loom. The port city actually prospered, while other cities fell into decline.
Jelindel dek Mediesar was a young woman whose face was etched by fine lines, proof that she had endured war, terror, and generally dangerous living. She was sitting in a tavern, thinking about D’loom’s sudden prosperity, and how some occupations flourish no matter what the circumstances. She was an archmage-warrior, an occupation unique for a woman. To add to her achievements, she was also an intelligent archmage-warrior, and this gave her considerable advantage over the competition.
Daretor, a rather introspective master swordsman, lounged beside her. Through a series of misfortunes, he had run foul of a former companion called Zimak, a thief. Daretor currently inhabited Zimak’s diminutive body, while Zimak strode inside Daretor’s magnificently muscled frame. Many months had passed since the body-swap. Fortunately for Daretor, Zimak’s body had been amicable to hard work and exercise. Now feeling more comfortable in Zimak’s body, the swordsman nonetheless suffered spells of depression whenever he pondered the fate of his own body in the hands of the mead-guzzling Zimak.
A grizzled, gaunt man sat before the pair, dickering for their services. His name was Theroc, and he was from Yuledan. He claimed the town was under attack by aerial beasts that came at night, plucking citizens from the streets. The town, already plundered regularly by brigands from the nearby mountains, was on the point of collapse. None dared leave their homes, for fear of the airborne predators that came at night, and the brigands that came by day. Fear was stamped across Theroc’s features. His eyes darted at any noise and he would not sit with his back to window or door.
‘We will pay you whatever you ask,’ he was saying, ‘if only you come quickly. If not, I fear Yuledan will have only ghosts for citizens.’
Daretor leaned forward, staring at the ground. ‘You say nobody has seen these beasts?’ he said, concentrating on Theroc’s words rather than his face.
‘I say none has seen them and lived,’ Theroc replied. ‘Here, this is half of what we can pay.’
He pushed a heavy pouch across the table; it clinked with the dull sound of gold oriels.
Daretor hefted it, then peered inside. He nodded at Jelindel.
‘Expect us in three days,’ she said.
Theroc sighed with relief. ‘I will send a message,’ he said, seizing Jelindel’s hand and kissing it fervently before rising.
Theroc nodded awkwardly at Daretor. Jelindel noted that as he left the tavern he glanced nervously skyward before hurrying along the street. He ran doubled over, shoulders hunched, as if fearing an attack from above.
Jelindel grinned at Daretor, tapping the bag of gold coins. ‘This and its companion could keep us in comfort for some time,’ she commented.
‘Have you any idea what the sky beasts might be?’ he asked.
‘No, but things that fly are very vulnerable. They must be light if they are to fly. Consequently, they can’t have heavy scales, and will be easily wounded. From all accounts, you had no problems with the bat-wing warriors in the Forest of Castles.’
‘That said, the Preceptor’s deadmoon assassins very nearly killed you,’ Daretor pointed out.
‘But I am still alive, and they are not. If it flies, it can be easily hurt.’
Jelindel watched Daretor for a time. He seemed more introspective than usual.
‘You’re thinking about the fliers from the Forest of Castles,’ she stated, rather than asked.
Daretor sucked noisily at a sliver of meat caught between his teeth. ‘Their wing devices could but carry their own weight. They could never have snatched up victims and flown off with them.’
Jelindel tucked the purse safely away. ‘Well, it looks as though we’re still partners. Your vow to hang up your sword and join a monastery was short-lived.’
Daretor snorted. ‘I said nothing about joining a monastery. Besides, why should I be a scholar when I have you to do the thinking?’
‘Good point, Daretor darling. Keep that thought and we’ll live happily ever after.’
An hour later they were strolling up Fish Street, aiming to book passage for themselves and three horses on one of the great caravans that provided the only safe long-distance transportation for passengers and cargo. The sheer size of the caravans deterred any attacking force smaller than an army.
They spent the rest of the day gathering supplies. That night they took a comfortable room so that they might have their last good sleep for what would probably be a very long time. Despite the comfortable bed and clean sheets, Jelindel had trouble sleeping.
‘Do you remember what I said on the battlefield after the Preceptor’s army fell?’ she asked Daretor softly.
‘Go to sleep.’
‘Did I say that?’
Daretor stirred, thinking back. ‘Um … you foresaw that anarchy would return to the world. Stands to reason. Remove the means to enforce law and order, and you can kiss law and order goodbye.’
‘I also said that we would have a part to play,’ said Jelindel. ‘A thousand years of darkness lies ahead.’
‘A thousand years,’ muttered Daretor. ‘Why is it always a thousand years? Why not nine hundred and a score years, or eleven hundred?’
‘I am having a premonition about all this, Daretor. In some way that I can’t yet fathom, we’re involved. Our obnoxious ex-comrade Zimak too, I think, wherever he is. I have a feeling that this work in Yuledan will start us on that road.’
‘Don’t mention that thieving wastrel,’ Daretor grumbled. ‘Why do your premonitions always come just as I am trying to get to sleep?’ he wondered. ‘Why not in the morning?’
The next day they arrived early at the caravan grounds. The number of pack animals alone exceeded two thousand, and they were to be escorted by a force the size of a small army. By mutual agreement, Jelindel and Daretor were part of this force.
‘They should be paying us,’ muttered Daretor, as they rode out of the city, ‘not us them.’
They were already covered in dust, and the pace was very slow.
‘We are paying to have the protection of the caravan’s sheer size,’ Jelindel pointed out.
A customs officer rode past. ‘May your journey be prosperous!’ he called out cheerily.
‘There speaks a man who is not going on the journey, yet will grow prosperous on our departure,’ said Daretor.
By late afternoon D’loom was a smudge on the horizon. The caravan was well organised and run with efficiency, but this did not stop Daretor and Jelindel from being covered in dust, chilled by the wind, and abused by the marshal riders.
‘Do you know that I have not had a single thought of ambush all day?’ Jelindel asked.
‘I, on the other hand, have thought of nothing but dust that smells of horse and camel manure,’ replied Daretor.
‘Why have we never travelled this way before?’ Jelindel wanted to know.
‘It’s called poverty,’ Daretor said. ‘P.O.V.E.R.T.Y. People who have no money suffer from it. They have adventures involving ambushes because lone travellers on the open road are easy targets.’
‘Well, we’re not poor anymore and I say this is definitely the way to travel. It’s like being in a large travelling town.’
‘Especially for first-class travellers, who get the wagons with dust mesh screens.’
‘Most especially first class. The largest wagons even have privies.’
‘It would seem you can take the girl out of the countess but not the countess out of the girl.’
Jelindel ignored the remark. ‘It’s sort of romantic, don’t you think?’
‘Romantic?’ Daretor asked. His mind went slightly blank at the thought.
‘Yes, romantic. It’s something we should try once in a while.’ ‘You’re deliberately annoying me because I wanted a good night’s sleep before the journey.’
‘Not true!’ Jelindel snapped, and turned her back.
Caravans are very much like moving towns. By day they are a long, thin line. By night they are a small, compact settlement with markets, defences, homes, workshops, and even taverns. With the caravan stopped for the night, Jelindel toured the market to see what was on offer. Amid the exotic drinks, foods, trinkets, amulets, herbal powders, and weapons, she found a book stall. Few people paid much attention to the stall and its owner, and Jelindel soon learned that the man could not read. Someone had apparently marked the books according to what they thought their value ought to be, but whoever it was did not know much about literature. Significant books with no pictures were reasonably priced, while simple books with nice pictures and good leather covers were expensive. There were books about dark magic with forbidding covers; one in particular was so horrible that it drew Jelindel’s eye. She picked it up reluctantly. It was about Golgora, the paraworld of eternal punishment. ‘The Place of the Damned,’ she said, shuddering. She dropped the book back on the pile, childhood nightmares unpleasantly rising within her. She moved quickly to a stack of geographical books. They seemed safer. One of these took her fancy, and she bought it. The price was low because it contained maps instead of pictures.
Jelindel took the book to her tent, and began poring over it by the light of a candle. Candles were expensive on a caravan because they took up weight that might otherwise be occupied by spices.
Over the course of the next two hours Jelindel merged with the book, peering at the intricate maps, and reading the histories that accompanied each place name. It brought back memories of her childhood home, before it was stormed by the Preceptor’s lindrak assassins. She could not bear to think of her slaughtered family. In those far-off days she had loved maps; the larger and more exotic the better. For hours she would study them, tracing out roads and ancient highways that linked now vanished towns and kingdoms, creating her own imaginary kingdoms and visualising them in her mind.
Daretor returned from sentry duty at the perimeter of the encamped caravan. ‘You’re burning a candle?’ he exclaimed.
‘All the better to see by,’ replied Jelindel.
‘But don’t you know how much they cost?’
‘Well, yes, I paid for it after all.’
‘But you could read by sunlight.’
‘No I couldn’t. I’m riding a horse between dawn and dusk, and I’m supposed to be watching out for danger as well.’
‘Well, have you eaten yet? I’m hungry.’
As it happened, Jelindel had forgotten about dinner. They stepped out of the tent, carrying their packs for security. As they did, a thin man moved swiftly away in the direction of the market. Jelindel had the distinct impression that he had been eavesdropping outside the tent.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Jelindel demanded, but the man had already vanished into the crowd.
Daretor looked at her, puzzled. He hadn’t noticed anything. ‘Something the matter?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said, putting an arm around him. ‘Nothing at all. Let’s go and buy some overpriced food and drink.’
The area near the food stalls had become a type of open-air tavern. The caravan master sat at the centre of a circle of several dozen people, holding court like a minor monarch. Jelindel and Daretor listened as they ate dinner, which consisted of various odd looking scraps wrapped in stale flatbread.
‘I come from a long line of sailors,’ the caravan master was saying, ‘going back eight generations, but in me it nearly came to a halt because – and I am ashamed to admit it …’ he roared with laughter, ‘that no sooner am I upon the water, no matter how calm it may be, than I am bent over the railing being sick. Nothing to be done about it. Nothing at all. So here I am. Captain of a ship of camels and horses that sails a different sea, one that is mercifully without the slip and sway that so unmans my poor landlubber’s stomach.’
‘You can’t be ridin’ a camel!’ someone called, and everyone laughed.
Also gathered around were a number of merchants travelling to Hez’ar in Baltoria, and some farming representatives returning to the great forests east of Passendof, beyond the Serpentire River. There was also a scattering of noblemen and their families and a mage or two. That, in itself, was odd. Mages tended not to travel, except in times of extreme danger.
Jelindel and Daretor knew no one on the journey, though some of the travellers had heard of the famed fighting duo. Certainly the two mages, under contract to a town in Unissera, had heard of the Archmage Jelindel dek Mediesar. Jelindel quickly became the centre of attention, but she was not the type who liked to boast and be admired. She made it her business to vanish as soon as she could. Sometime later, Daretor found her back in their tent, lying on her unrolled bedding, too tired to even undress.
‘I love travelling,’ she said to Daretor as he began to remove his boots. ‘I just hate the crowds that go with caravans. If we had a rich patron, we could circumnavigate all Q’zar in our very own caravan. We would employ twenty elite lancers to deter brigands, and visit at our leisure every state on the continent.’
‘Why?’
‘To bring the maps of my dreams to life.’
Daretor shrugged. ‘If you like,’ he said, ‘but we had better find that patron soon. The days are getting darker and troubles brew like plagues. You heard the captain say they’ve had to change the routes and shorten the overall journey. Many lands have fallen on bad times, and even worse rulers. You yourself have predicted that things will get worse.’
‘Why is it when one tyrant falls, twenty rise to take his place?’ Jelindel sighed. ‘And caravans will be the first casualties. Provinces and shires will withdraw into themselves, becoming suspicious of strangers. A darkness of the mind will descend on all humanity …’
‘There you go again.’
Jelindel laughed. ‘I’m just pandering to your spirit for adventure.’
Sounds of commotion came from the distance, men shouting, and the clash of steel.
‘Never fails,’ muttered Daretor. ‘Get my second boot off and the fighting starts.’
‘It begins,’ said Jelindel. ‘Our rest is over.’
‘What do you mean? It’s probably just some drunken camel drivers.’
‘I think the peril of Yuledan has come to us before we can come to it.’
‘We’re many leagues and days from Yuledan.’
‘Nevertheless, it comes for us. I can feel it. Quick. Get your boots back on and fetch your sword. I don’t know what comes, only that it does.’
The sound of fighting grew closer. Jelindel and Daretor had just emerged from the tent when a company of foot soldiers appeared from amid their neighbours’ tents. Daretor instantly recognised the device on their leather surcoats: a flaming-red dragon’s-head motif on a field of black. They were being attacked by soldiers from the Tower Inviolate. But that was impossible!
Daretor dropped into a fighting stance, his mind in fighting mode, while Jelindel stood ready with an enchantment on her lips. Before either of them could react, someone tossed a handful of yellow gems into a nearby campfire. The crystals exploded in a soundless rush of air and coruscating light. Then Daretor and Jelindel knew no more.
Jelindel was the first to recover. She stirred and opened one eye, knitting her brows as she tried to remember what had happened. Objects loomed in front of her and it was another minute or two before her vision cleared. She was in a hold, probably aboard a ship. The muffled hissing of the wind, the creaking of leather, the swaying of the floor, confirmed her worst suspicions. Although there was something not quite right.
Salt.
There was no smell of the sea, no sound of gulls, and certainly not the ever-present salt spray. A nearby groan distracted her; Jelindel turned to find Daretor gazing at her. His hands and feet were bound, although hers were not. There were, however, ligature marks on her wrists and ankles; she had been tied, but could not remember anything.
‘Where are we?’ Daretor asked, perplexed.
‘In a lot of trouble?’ suggested Jelindel.
‘Well, I would be a lot happier if I were in a lot of trouble and had my hands and legs free.’
She untied his wrists and rubbed them to restore the circulation, then he untied his own ankles.
‘We’re on a ship,’ Jelindel said. ‘But something’s not right.’
Daretor knuckled the stinging sensation from his eyes. The yellow gems seemed to have affected him in ways they had not Jelindel.
‘We’re not on a ship,’ he said. ‘Not, at least, a ship of the sea or land.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’re on the back of a flying creature,’ he told her, wincing as the blood pumped back into his feet. ‘I think it’s a dragon.’
Daretor’s tone chilled Jelindel. ‘You’re serious?’ she asked.
‘It fits, doesn’t it? Aerial beasts in Yuledan, gouts of fire. Besides, I recognised the livery of our attackers at the caravan. They must be from the Tower Inviolate.’
‘But that’s on another paraworld.’
‘I know,’ Daretor said. ‘But if we were able to travel there, then what’s to stop them from coming here?’
Jelindel seemed distracted for a moment. ‘Nothing, I suppose. But it’s unlikely that they would come all this way to retrieve an escaped gladiator.’
‘Agreed,’ said Daretor, shrugging. ‘But why else come for us?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Jelindel said, biting her lip. ‘I guess we will find out soon enough.’
Daretor blinked away the pain roaring behind his eyes. His vision had become blurred by a red haze. ‘What did they do to us back there?’
Jelindel moved closer to him. ‘Are you all right?’
Daretor drew a ragged breath. ‘If feeling as though I’ve drunk a squad of lancers under the table can be deemed as all right, I guess I am,’ he groaned.
‘That’s all right, then.’ Jelindel ran her fingers through his hair, concentrating. Bit by bit she drew writhing energy from his scalp, wincing as she absorbed it. When she could stand the pain no longer, she flicked the build up from her fingers.
‘It’s easing,’ he said.
Jelindel devoted part of her attention to dispelling Daretor’s psychic hangover and another to finding out what might have happened at the caravan.
‘Ordinarily I could have shielded us from their magic,’ she said at last. ‘But it was very strong – I suspect it was ancient magic. Dragon magic, which is said to be the most powerful of all.’
‘I’ve had enough of dragons,’ Daretor said. ‘Hundreds of the horrors. Intelligent, too.’
Soon, Daretor was able to stand and move about. They crossed to a viewing plate, and Daretor’s suspicions proved correct. Patches of cloud whipped past. The land was far below. Once, they ploughed through a skein of jet-black magalels, scattering them left and right, leaving them squawking in their wake.
Without warning, the door to the cargo hold opened. A man entered while two guards stood inside the opening, warily alert. The man bowed curtly. He had a sharp face, hawkish from some angles. His thick brows met in the middle, over intelligent eyes. An air about him indicated that he was no underling. He seemed malevolent, despite his seeming politeness.
A wolf badly disguised as a sheep, thought Daretor, not bothering to assess the possibility of escape while up so very high.
The man seemed to read Daretor’s mind. ‘Where would you go?’ he asked. ‘Unless you can fly? My name is Rakeem. I am vizier to his Majesty, King Amida, whose hospitality you have already been privileged to experience.’ He gazed at Daretor, who shrugged.
‘What do you want with us?’ Jelindel asked. ‘You don’t seem to want us dead.’
Rakeem switched his attention to her.
‘You know what we want.’
‘Actually we don’t,’ said Jelindel, with the confidence of someone who has nothing to lose. ‘I assume you are from a paraworld, the very paraworld where my friend Daretor was marooned in times past.’
‘Innocence does not become you, Archmage, but I shall speak our intentions plainly if you want it that way. We are seeking a powerful talisman that was stolen the same night your friend here, along with his accomplice, escaped from our domain. We want it back.’
‘We stole nothing!’ Daretor said heatedly.
‘Do not insult my intelligence,’ Rakeem said. ‘Did you not also steal one of our dragons? I would hardly call that “nothing”.’
Daretor glared back. Jelindel scratched her head.
‘Steal is putting it a bit strongly,’ Daretor said. ‘We’d been unlawfully and unjustly imprisoned, and sentenced to die in your barbaric games. Escaping on one of your own dragons was only fair. Speaking for myself, I took no talisman.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘What did it look like?’ Jelindel asked, gesturing for Daretor to keep silent.
Rakeem seemed surprised at the question. ‘It is a strange artefact, brought perhaps from an unknown paraworld long ago. It is made of something called red jade – a rarity everywhere. A thousand years ago it was fashioned into the shape of a dragon heart, and ever since it has pulsed as if filled with a dragon’s life’s blood.’
‘We did not steal it,’ Daretor repeated, ‘although we might have if given a chance.’
Rakeem scowled. He walked to the door and turned to face them again. ‘It is the dragonsight. My king wants it back, even at the price of destroying your world to get it.’
‘That’s a high price to pay,’ said Daretor.
‘That is of little consequence. He doesn’t live here, does he?’ said Rakeem.
‘Why is the dragonsight so valuable?’ asked Jelindel.
‘If you had it, I would not dare tell you. If you do not, it is none of your business.’
He strode out the door, followed by his men-at-arms. The door slammed shut, and a heavy bolt shot home.
Jelindel breathed out. ‘Charming,’ she said. Daretor snorted in amusement. ‘Perhaps you should tell me more about this world before we land. Am I liable to need a crash course as a female gladiator?’
‘No need to worry there,’ Daretor said, smiling wanly. ‘You would acquit yourself well enough.’
‘Well enough to do what? Stay alive for thirty seconds? Come now, tell me everything.’
Daretor told her the story in more detail. Nearly a year earlier, he and their former companion, Zimak, had been marooned on another paraworld. They had materialised thousands of feet above ground. As they hurtled to inevitable death, they were netted by a flight of dragonriders and carried to the Tower Inviolate. Here they were recruited as gladiators, for the amusement of the locals. With the help of a slave called Osric and his dragon S’cressling, they had escaped. Eventually they had returned to Q’zar. Osric went back to his own people with the stolen dragon, hoping to breed healthy dragons and build an army of airborne creatures that might rival the dark dominion of King Amida.
Jelindel pondered the story. ‘Something doesn’t quite make sense,’ she said.
‘How so? I think it’s a good story and it’s true.’
‘They must think you have hidden the dragonsight on their paraworld, otherwise they wouldn’t be taking you back to their world. You don’t have it in your coin purse, after all.’
Daretor shrugged. ‘You could be right. If we had stolen it, it would be the logical thing to do, in case we were caught before returning to Q’zar.’
‘Did you hide it?’
‘No!’ snapped Daretor.
‘All right, all right. I shall assume that you are telling the truth, which might not be a very sensible thing to do. But let us assume it anyway. That leaves Zimak. Surely they must also be seeking him?’
Daretor’s face hardened. ‘Let them find him. It’s nature’s way of punishing him for all that dissolute living. Good-for-nothing, overgrown braggart.’
‘Darling mine, if ever you’re to swap bodies, then you had best hope nothing untoward happens to him. Now where was I? Zimak was last seen heading towards Fa’red’s castle in Skelt. What reason could he have, do you suppose, for seeking an audience with his bitterest enemy?’
‘And ours.’
‘Maybe he wants to swap recipes.’ Jelindel ventured, scratching her head.
‘More likely tales of his amorous conquests,’ Daretor said with a sneer.
‘Now, now … No, I’m thinking he might have the dragonsight. Obviously it’s a potent icon, otherwise this King Amida wouldn’t be going to so much trouble to bring you to book.’
‘Zimak …’ Daretor left the name dangling.
The dragon lurched, banking steeply; they were flung off their feet and rolled across the floor till they crashed against the wall. They climbed cautiously to their feet and peered out the porthole when the floor corrected itself.
They were passing through a mountainous region, negotiating a high pass between peaks.
‘I wonder where we’re heading,’ Jelindel mused. ‘They must have powerful magic to bring a beast of this size through a portal between paraworlds.’
‘Beasts,’ said Daretor, reminding her of the mission to Yuledan. ‘Theroc spoke of the night swarming with aerial creatures.’
‘If these are the same dragons,’ Jelindel said.
The dragon emerged from a bank of grey cloud. Ahead were the foothills of the northern slopes of the Garrical Mountains. Instead of a great empty basin where Dragonfrost should have been, there rose a sheer rocky wall at least five thousand feet, its uppermost peaks cloaked in cloud.
Jelindel was dumbfounded.
‘Sort of vaguely not of our world,’ she said, confused. ‘I think … this is not possible.’
‘It’s the Tower Inviolate,’ Daretor said.
She stared at him. ‘That’s in the other paraworld.’
‘Well it’s here now,’ Daretor said, wide-eyed.
The truth dawned on Jelindel. ‘Is this the mountain shield wall that you told me about? The one that surrounds the crater in which stands the Tower Inviolate?’
Daretor nodded, too pensive to comment.
‘Don’t you see what this means?’
Daretor didn’t turn. ‘No, I don’t. To me it looks like they’ve brought their entire domain through the portal.’
‘That’s exactly what they seem to have done,’ Jelindel said.
‘But no magic could achieve such a thing. Could it?’
‘I’m open to suggestions.’ Jelindel shook her head, still gazing at the massive wall. ‘With such magic, they could do much, much worse. Nobody on this world could hope to stop them. Then again, they might come in peace, and achieve greatness.’
The dragon dived into one of the canyons, the sheer walls of which were barely wider than the beast’s powerfully beating wing tips. The flight through the canyon was frightening but also exhilarating, though neither Jelindel nor Daretor were in any mood to appreciate it.
‘This is definitely some powerful magic of the ancients,’ said Jelindel.
The dragon flew from the inner canyon opening out over a vast crater some five miles across. At the centre of the crater rose the Tower Inviolate. The scale of the magic used to transport such a huge object from one paraworld to another stupefied Jelindel. Power to do that simply did not exist. And then another thought occurred to her.
‘I have remembered something from the writings of an oracle,’ she said. ‘An ancient prophecy that claims that one day the dragons of Q’zar are destined to return.’
‘Of Q’zar?
‘There once were dragons on Q’zar. You’ve heard the fairy tales, the curses – remember I showed you and Zimak the fossilised remains of one such beast in the Valley of Clouds. Places such as Dragonfrost, which till now has lain empty … it makes me wonder if this is where they originally dwelt. Maybe this entire massif was originally from Q’zar. From this very spot. Maybe it has finally found its way back home.’
‘Why and how?’ asked Daretor, dreading the obvious answers.
‘Why? Who knows? How? Well, because you and Zimak showed them the way.’
Daretor drew a deep breath before replying. ‘Are you saying it’s my fault?’
Jelindel shook her head. ‘This isn’t about whose fault it is, Daretor. Perhaps you acted as a beacon. A candle can’t help but attract moths.’
‘These dragons are a little larger than moths.’
‘True, but what matters is how are we going to deal with them. Are they here as friends or foes?’
‘Something must have made them leave in the first place,’ Daretor reasoned.
‘Good point.’
‘And that something can be found again.’
‘Where?’ asked Jelindel.
‘I didn’t say I knew everything.’
Jelindel thought for a time.
‘It was thousands of years ago. Some scholars say the dragons’ land sank beneath the sea, and yet others say that a terrible foe came through the portal from another paraworld. Seashells have been found in the middle of Dragonfrost, and in other unlikely places.’
‘Perhaps we’ll soon learn the truth,’ Daretor said, eyeing the dark tower that was growing closer with every moment. Dozens of dragons, all bearing passengers, swarmed about the castle and the huge roosting holes.
Below, the floor of Dragonfrost appeared a dry dusty desert, networked by a maze of thin ravines that covered the floor like the wrinkles on the face of an ancient crone.
The dragon landed heavily in one of the roosting holes, and Jelindel and Daretor were once again flung to the floor. At the same moment the door opened and the guards hurried in, seemingly used to the swaying of the deck. They snapped shackles on both prisoners.
Jelindel and Daretor were escorted to the main deck. From there they were taken over a gangplank to a ledge halfway up the roost wall. Then they were led along a dark tunnel.
‘I never wanted to see this place again,’ muttered Daretor.
After several winding passageways, lit by little more than smoking tallow torches, they emerged in a grand chamber that rose in shallow tiers – like high steps – to a central stage or lounging area. King Amida and his courtiers held court here, and suffered whatever entertainments were brought before them.
The prisoners were dragged before King Amida and forced to their knees. Rakeem appeared from another entrance, followed by several lackeys. He had found the time to change into courtly robes, and looked as if he had been anointed with oils. His skin gleamed in the lamplight.
The king, resplendent in fine robes and regalia, stared disapprovingly at Jelindel and Daretor. ‘You have found them,’ he said, beaming at Rakeem. ‘Tell me about the girl.’
Rakeem inclined his head in abeyance. ‘She is the man’s mate. I deemed it wise to bring her also, as she may know something of the dragonsight. She will, in any case, provide the other with incentive to speak truthfully.’
‘As always, Rakeem, you see all the ways. You are not unlike the dragonsight itself, I think.’ The king chuckled and Rakeem bowed humbly. The king stared at Daretor fixedly.
‘Where is it?’ he demanded. ‘Where is my talisman, you wretched thief?’
Daretor kept his eyes downcast, trying to efface himself as far as his pride would allow. ‘Is it permitted to speak to the king?’ he asked.
‘It is. Speak. And none of your barbarian lies.’
‘Your Majesty, your esteemed vizier has explained the nature of the thing that you seek, but I do not have it. I did not steal this talisman nor have I ever laid hands upon it. I am a warrior and a man of honour. I have spoken the truth.’
The king contemplated Daretor’s words.
‘I remember your deeds in the arena, Q’zaran,’ he said. ‘I know you as the gladiator that felled the mantid. Yet it stands that when you escaped from the citadel so too did the dragonsight go missing. Such a coincidence suggests its own answer.’
‘Sire, it may be that my former companion, whose honour is less than desirous, may have stolen the object that you seek,’ Daretor said. ‘If that were so, he would not have told me about it, but hoped to sell it for his own gain.’
The king laughed. ‘That is exactly what he said about you.’
Zimak stepped out from behind a hanging tapestry, a spear point encouraging him to move along. He was scowling.
‘Zimak,’ said Jelindel, genuinely surprised. Daretor struggled against his manacles. The sight of his once bronzed and toned body now turned to flab dismayed and angered him.
‘Well, thief and betrayer,’ he growled. ‘Now we know how we were found. What profit have you negotiated for handing us over?’
‘None,’ said Zimak. ‘I am a … er … guest of King Amida, like you. I was deep in some negotiations in Skelt when these fine people located me.’
‘Deep in the process of selling us out to Fa’red, I’ll wager,’ Daretor shouted. ‘Or selling something that doesn’t belong to you.’
The king watched the exchange, enjoying the display as though it were a pantomime. He clapped his hands. ‘Enough,’ he announced. ‘Take them away, Rakeem. Test them. The Sacred One will know the truth.’
Guards hurried forth and grabbed Jelindel and Daretor. They bustled them from the audience chamber and raced along dark corridors, through several chambers in which industrious men and women were hard at work, to a jutting inner buttress in which a door was outlined.
One of the guards tugged at a rope and a distant bell sounded. A moment later it was followed by a harsh grinding noise.
A clattering sound came from behind the door. The guards pulled it open, revealing a small enclosed chamber with no door or window. Jelindel and Daretor assumed this was their prison cell, but the guards pushed inside with them and closed the door. One of the guards tugged on a rope which again caused a bell of a different tone to sound.
Without warning the room lurched then dropped downwards, as if it were falling into a hole in the ground. Jelindel and Daretor clutched each other as the primitive elevator descended.
The guards laughed at the fright on their faces. One explained how the elevator worked: a series of ropes and pulleys, operated by slaves in the depths of the castle. They winched the hanging cabin up and down the vertical tunnel, as required.
‘It is a wonder,’ Jelindel said sincerely.
The cage stopped and they were ushered into a chamber with a deep fissure in the floor. Jelindel suspected that lava flowed inside it. The air was oppressively hot, wafting up and carrying the reek of brimstone.
The sweating guards led Jelindel and Daretor towards a dark shapeless mound sitting on a kind of rocky island where the magma fissure split in two before rejoining again. The prisoners crossed a small stone bridge to the island.
Rakeem appeared from the other side, his face expressionless. He crossed another bridge and gestured for the prisoners to kneel. An intensity behind his eyes caused Jelindel to frown.
‘You are in the presence of the Sacred One,’ Rakeem softly intoned, as if he were in the holiest of churches. ‘Here you will speak the truth, for nought else can be heard in this place.’
The dark mound stirred. A huge sinuous shape uncoiled and lifted a gaunt serpentine head to gaze at them with a yellow cat’s eye the size of a dinner plate. The other eye socket hung limp and shrouded by loose skin. It was an ancient and withered dragon. Bat-like leathery skin hung from his frame like a quilt. Where once scales would have shone in myriad colours, they now hung dark and dank as their surroundings.
‘Who comes?’ asked a deep sibilant voice. The dragon took a deep breath, struggling for the strength to speak. ‘Who comes to trouble me?’
‘It is I, Sacred One,’ said Rakeem. The dragon’s eye narrowed, peering at the vizier. Rakeem took an involuntary step back as if the weight of this gaze was too much to bear. ‘It is Rakeem – the king’s adviser.’
The ancient dragon pondered the statement and a slow chuckle rumbled from his heaving stomach. ‘That is nothing to me,’ he wheezed. ‘The king of men is still a man and he and all his descendants will be dust before I breathe my last. Why do you disturb my slumber?’
Rakeem seemed affronted by the speech, but betrayed not an ounce of verbal disapproval. ‘Sacred One, we have need of the truthsense. We believe these prisoners stole the dragonsight.’
The dragon’s head swivelled and the piercing yellow eye stared into Jelindel and Daretor. The creature’s breath rattled, a long juddering sound that reminded Jelindel of a lowering drawbridge.
Although Jelindel had time to cast a stronger barrier between herself and the dragon, the beast’s gaze bored straight through it. She felt a profound lethargy come over her.
‘Did you take the dragonsight?’ the old dragon asked.
They both answered that they did not. ‘Know you who did?’ Again they answered in the negative. The dragon considered this, or maybe – as Jelindel came to believe – it used the moment to probe deeper into their beings.
The dragon’s breath grew laboured. ‘Have you experience of finding that which is lost?’ the Sacred One asked.
‘We have,’ Jelindel said. Daretor nodded in agreement. Jelindel later said that she sensed a deep sadness behind the dragon’s words.
‘Then I bid you find the dragonsight and restore it to its … proper place. Go now. Let me return to my Dreaming.’
The ancient dragon’s head sagged; the eye closed, extinguishing the remarkable lantern. Jelindel and Daretor jerked as if waking from a dream. They looked at the dragon in wonder. The only sign of life was his deep rumbling breath.
Rakeem ordered the guards to remove the prisoners. He seemed only too happy to leave the slumbering giant to his sleep.